Lost Souls

For the past 10 days or so, Max has been in front of this PC, working away at an e-business Strategic Plan. The Plan was delivered this afternoon.

In the meantime, outside his room, beyond the spikes of the Yucca, the usual shit was happening. Margaret Hassan was shot in the head. “Mother” was voted the favourite word from a poll of thousands in non English-speaking countries. A lost soul went sailing over the rails of the Empire State Building.The price of kerosene was doubled to the price of diesel because the Prime Minister claimed the nation was cheating the Government out of taxes on fuel. And Max’s friend Mr. Silver, now in Virgina BC, emailed Max with some advice. Here it is:

“Max, you really are a talented s.o.b. Would you be offended, if I offer you some advice? If so, read no further.

If not, let me first suggest to you that you should not keep a diary, notwithstanding that it can be seen to be very amusing. The problem is, it serves to reinforce any depression you are feeling. What I have done and, from time to time when I can find the discipline to do it, is write a fantasy. Develop a super hero – something completely different from your day to day life experience. The hero, being a hero, will serve to bring up your own mood and, if you can hit a winning formula, could be the next SpiderMan. A good outlet for your writing talents.”

Max has thought about this, but is not sure that he will take Mr Silver’s advice. Not through any disrespect to Mr Silver, a man whose advice and intellect Max has long admired. Max is just not sure that he is depressed. Max knows that he is in a bubble that he needs to burst so he can get to the next room. He can see the room, it is in a calmer place, and it does not very different to his own, with Jacob lying on the red sofa, watching Shrek, asking Max to do his ‘Goolie Bird’ impression. He just needs to get to it.

For the record, Max managed to recover from three hours sleep to deliver a decent presentation on e-business and English Language Schools. Max’s client clapped, and told him it was a great presentation, even though Max looked like shit.

Max’s favourite word has always been the four-letter expletive – nothing quite like the violence of the trapped air exploding through clenched teeth graving over parched lips.

Max wonders if he will have to mutate into a super-hero to get out of the bubble. Or whether he will do what he always does in the end: graft, drive, wriggle out. To a better place.